The capital streets pulsed with strained life. Hawkers bellowed prices, street urchins dodged wagons, and the clang of hooves rang down cobblestone streets. But beneath the prosaic din still tingled the keen bite of unrest. Blackened wood outlined the horizon where fire had licked at rooftops, and the populace murmured in whispers of the temple raid and the blast that had threatened to incinerate the Emperor's carriage.
The imperial procession cut through the city like a sword. Its center rolled the Emperor's carriage, black lacquered wood glimmering in the light of the torches, its gold crest polished until it blinded. Knights on either side walked in polished armor, swords held high as a steel wall between the crowd and them.
Inside the carriage, the Emperor sat rigid, fists knotted on his knees. Eilan and Mark flanked him, battered but unbroken quiet. Hans hobbled in chains at the tail of the procession, jibes and puke of the crowd marking each step.
